Title: "Achilles"
Author: LegalBlonde
Email: legalblonde2005@yahoo.com
Rating: PG
Pairing: J/I
Spoilers: AU, post "A Dark Turn"
Summary: J/I, angst, romance. Jack and Irina forge a tenuous truce that tests both their loyalties.
Disclaimer: Alias and its wonderful characters belong to JJ Abrams, Bad Robot, and lots of other people with more money than me. They make all the money off this, and I make none. The song quotes are from the Indigo Girls' "Ghost".
Author's Note: This series is built around my standalone, "Infallible". It doesn't follow that storyline exactly; that story will eventually be incorporated as a chapter in this, with minor changes. The fic picks up shortly after "A Dark Turn".
And dance the edge of sanity,
I've never been this close.
Amber lights, amber-finished wood, amber liquid. The life he chooses here is simple, comprehensible, monochromatic.
Everything she will never be.
He doesn't bother swirling the scotch in his glass or staring moodily, he simply throws it back, one burning sip after another, until the amber is emptied from the glass and he sets it down on the bar; it connects solidly and he can feel the vibrations run through the heavy wood.
Harder than he intended, but no matter. The bartender looks up, putting down the hose he had been cleaning. The fifth hose he's cleaned since Jack has been here.
The younger man does not ask the older one, does not even make eye contact. He slaps another amber glass down, more gently. Minutes later, it too is gone.
He signals the bartender; he waves two fingers. Two more. Perhaps, then, his guilt, his idiocy, will fade away into the amber light. But she -- she will never fade. He learned this long ago.
He remembers passing a stack of bills to the bartender. They stuck as they slid across the bar. Someone must have spilled.
He remembers the backseat of a taxi, thick with dust and smelling of urine. A rough stop, another handful of bills. He can, he thinks, make it to the house. One step, another, he does not need the keys. The door swings open, and he takes two more steps in.
He wakes the next morning (afternoon?) and he feels the rough upholstery of the couch against his cheek. His head pounds, his eyes burn, and he remembers. He remembers even in his dreams. Always the same dream: smooth skin, his hand running across her shoulder, tracing down her bare back. Her breath warm on the skin of his neck, his chest, her hair falling across his lips. And then she looks up at him, her eyes bright, and she smiles. He sees the blade flash for only a moment before she draws it across his throat. And he jerks awake, blinking in the amber light.
The phone rings, and he gropes for it, gripping it too tightly with his sweaty hand. The voice coming through is his daughter. She sounds concerned, and loud. He holds the phone four inches from his ear.
"Fine," he says, "I'm fine."
"Yes, yes. No. I'll be in later. No. I'll be in." He gropes again for the receiver, clicking it down unevenly before her voice stops talking. He pushes himself partway up and rubs his forearm across his eyes. It is rough with starched cotton; the same buttondown he put on yesterday, contrasting with the same dark pants. He sees the matching jacket slung over the chair across from him. He wonders if he can wear the same thing again today. Probably not.
His head still pounds when he arrives at the office, oblivious to the handful of aspirin he downed before leaving home. He sees Kendall, all too soon, seated at his desk and thumping a pencil against a file. He can only guess as to the contents of that file. Sighing, he trudges to the desk and drops unceremoniously into the chair on the other side. He stares at Kendall, who stares back. The men mirror each other, lips set, eyes dark.
"I have some questions about your last op with your ex-wife."
"I'd appreciate it if you would refer to her as Derevko."
"The two of you shared a hotel room in Panama?"
"You made the arrangements."
"I'm wondering how seriously you took your cover."
"If this is your way of asking me whether I slept with the prisoner, I suggest you follow another line of questioning."
"Fine. Did you sleep with the prisoner?"
"No. And we have nothing more to discuss." He straightens up and leaves. Not to his desk, but back out the front door, across the street, down a back road to a square brick building with a blinking neon sign. He runs his fingers across the smooth, amber-finished wood, tracing the dark grain. The bartender looks up at him, and does not meet his eyes. He plunks the first glass down, sliding it across the polished wood. The amber light filters through the dimmed windows, falling on the amber liquid in the glass. It is simple, comprehensible, monochromatic. He takes the first sip.